


these wildfires grow and grow

by mapped



Series: all here in one bed lay [1]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: Blindfolds, Bondage, Dildos, Dirty Talk, F/M, Light Dom/sub, Oral Sex, Pegging, Penis In Vagina Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Polyamory, Praise Kink, Pre-Series, Pre-Slash, Strap-Ons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-14
Updated: 2016-05-14
Packaged: 2018-06-08 06:41:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6843337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mapped/pseuds/mapped
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Miranda is very good at pushing, because she knows exactly what James has to give.</p>
            </blockquote>





	these wildfires grow and grow

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by [glix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/glix/pseuds/glix) in the [pirate_prompts_2016](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/pirate_prompts_2016) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
>  
> 
> pegging? Miranda/Flint, Anne/Jack, Anne/Max, any will do, I'm always here for pegging.
> 
> \---
> 
> Uh, I got super carried away with this. Oops. The pegging is at the very end, but you get like, lots more Miranda/Flint porn than you asked for. I hope that's ok and I hope you enjoy this!
> 
> This is set before Thomas and James get together. Title from 'Earth' by Sleeping At Last.

James had never wanted women.

He heard the way other men talked about women, and in their voices were claims to power, whether subtle or overt. He heard men flaunting the proof of their masculine authority to each other by talking about the women they’d fucked, and James never wanted any part of that. He heard men waxing lyrical about the softness of women, about their bodies and their compliance and the way they meekly bent themselves to suit men’s whims, and his very skin crawled at the idea.

It was not that he was opposed to the idea of bedding a woman—he had even done it, just once, to see what it was like, when the opportunity had presented itself. But he had not rated it an experience worth deliberately seeking out a second time, though it had been pleasant enough while it lasted. He certainly did not feel the need to boast of the encounter with the kind of nasty, obscene pride that other men paraded when it came to such matters.

And then, James met Lady Hamilton.

Lady Miranda Hamilton was beautiful, intelligent, kind, in everything a perfect match for her husband. It was astonishing, James thought: for all the cruelty and hardship that James had witnessed in the world, it was also a place which allowed two people such as Thomas and Miranda to come together and find love in each other.

James had been fully prepared to turn down Lady Hamilton’s advances. He truly had not thought that he wanted her, though he did like her, very much. But when she turned up at his lodgings unannounced, with her glinting eyes and her confident manner, insisting that Thomas would have no problem with her actions, he found some part of him unable to resist, a part of him that he had never quite realised was there.

In the carriage, as she went on disparaging the concept of propriety, James admired her keen perception of him, the way she seemed to see in him things which he himself desperately suppressed. Before he knew it, he was reaching for her hand.

After the carriage stopped at the Hamiltons’ residence and James said his farewell to Lady Hamilton, the driver set off the way he came, to take James back to his lodgings. James sat, dizzied by the memory of what had just taken place on this very seat. Miranda was so very good at pushing, that was true—but she had pushed because she saw that James _wanted_ to give, when James had not even known it himself.

The days passed, and James wanted her to keep pushing, to see what else she could draw out of him; he wanted her to surprise him with things that existed in him all along. He thought about the way he’d heard other men talk about women, about how _accommodating_ they could be, in words that induced more nausea in him than any rough sea voyage ever had.

He did not want Miranda to accommodate him in the slightest. He wanted… he wanted to accommodate Miranda.

She called on him one evening while he was reading—he was still making his way through an English edition of _Don Quixote_ after Miranda had recommended the book to him.

As she stepped into the room, her eyes landed on the book open upon the desk. She wandered over, closing the heavy tome and running her fingers down its spine.

“Are you enjoying it?” Miranda asked.

“Yes,” James said. He still felt the urge to add ‘ma’am’, although Miranda had repeatedly requested that he address her by her first name. “It’s very entertaining.”

Miranda smiled, and pressed for a more comprehensive review. James offered up a few thoughts and quipped that he rather hoped Thomas was not as delusional as the eponymous hero, nor he himself quite so bumbling as Sancho; though, he apologised, he was only nearing the end of Part One, and he might have more intelligent things to say about it once he had completed both volumes.

As he was talking, Miranda had begun to trace distracting patterns up his arm. 

“Get me out of this dress,” Miranda said, when he’d ceased to speak.

They’d fucked a few times by then, but each time it had been a hurried affair, the kind which did not require any shedding of garments, and James had never had the chance to undress her. It took him some time, along with helpful pointers from Miranda, to figure out how exactly to go about doing that.

But then the dress, which was blue that day, the colour of a cloudless sky such as James had never seen in London, was finally cast aside, folded over James’ sole chair by the desk. He unlaced her stays, while she looked intently at him; her petticoat too was discarded, and at last she was in her white shift and stockings and nothing else.

As the shift was untied and Miranda shrugged out of it, her breasts were revealed to him—and _just_ where the low front of the dress would have kept it out of sight, there was a purple mark on her breast. The sort of mark left behind by a biting kiss.

The sort of mark James had never dared to leave on anybody.

He was brushing it with his thumb before he realised it, and Miranda’s sharp intake of breath jolted him.

“Thomas fucked me just before I left the house,” Miranda said lightly, as if this was just the kind of thing you say to your husband’s colleague and friend, whom you also happen to be fucking. “He was rather enthusiastic.”

Thomas had left this mark. James tried his best to shield himself from the image that arose in his mind, of Thomas sucking this bruise into the skin of Miranda’s breast while Miranda rocked against him, but it was clearly futile. He let out a shaky exhalation.

Miranda’s eyes were bright. She gripped his wrist, and moved his hand a little, guiding him to touch her nipple; he rubbed it and squeezed the swell of her breast, and she sighed.

She let go of his hand. “Be a good boy and lie down, James,” she said.

James did as he was told, backing away and lying down on the bed. He was still dressed in his white shirt and his breeches.

Miranda followed, straddling his waist and bending to kiss him, and then she moved up his body, until she hovered over his face. “Lick me,” she said, and lowered herself onto his mouth.

James had, in truth, never done this before. He inhaled, his nose buried in her curls. The scent of her was heady, and as he pressed her tongue to her, he realised: Thomas had fucked her—Thomas had left his seed inside her.

And when he pushed his tongue inside, it was this he tasted in her, the slightly bitter tang of it. He had had a man spend in his mouth before, once. It had tasted like this, and yet this was like nothing else he had ever tasted.

He moaned, remembering what it felt like to be on his knees in front of another man, and wondering whether he would ever have the chance to taste Thomas properly. He was fully hard inside his breeches now at the thought. 

Miranda thrust against his mouth, and James panted as he lapped fervently at her; her wetness soon diluted the bitter taste, and all he could think now was how much he liked this in itself, his whole world reduced to this, Miranda’s weight pinning his head down, and all that he breathed and tasted was her, wetter and wetter on his tongue.

She came, quietly, and then she positioned himself at his waist once more. She touched his face, which was quite wet with the traces of her: his nose, his lips, his chin. She smiled softly—approvingly. With nimble speed, she opened his breeches and took out his cock and sank down upon him, and he could not help the groan that escaped him at the clutch of that wet heat around him, finally.

He shut his eyes in bliss for a few moments while Miranda began to move, but when he opened them, his gaze was drawn, helplessly, to that purple mark on her breast. He raised a hand to touch it again, but Miranda intercepted him and pushed his hand away. “Keep your hands at your side, Lieutenant.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, before he could stop himself, and Miranda laughed, gently.

“And don’t come until I have again,” she added.

James managed a hoarse ‘yes’ and settled for watching: the gorgeous bounce of her breasts as she rode him, the moans that fell from the round _o_ of her painted lips. He could keep his hands on the bed, grasping the sheets as she ground against him, but he could not keep his eyes away from that mark that Thomas’ mouth had left on her.

And he knew that she noticed, too, and it set the heart within him skittering like a young foal.

* * *

He had spent the afternoon in Thomas’ study, and it was becoming increasingly difficult to concentrate on what Thomas was saying as the afternoon turned to evening. He went about lighting the lamps in the room so as to have something to look at other than Thomas for a while. Sometimes he worried that he stared too much.

There was a knock, and Miranda drifted into the room, clad today in a dress the colour of dusky plums, or dried red roses. “Thomas, don’t forget you have that meeting with Lord Wright,” Miranda said. “It’s almost time for you to head off.”

“Oh, of course,” Thomas said, rubbing at his temple. “Thank you for reminding me.”

“And the Lieutenant must be wanting to get home,” Miranda said, glancing slyly at James. “He’s been here all day!”

James smiled. “I am rather tired, although I have enjoyed our discussions as usual, Thomas.” He looked at Thomas, feeling rather shy as he always did when he was in the presence of both Hamiltons at once.

“Yes, I will let you go,” Thomas said, sounding rueful. “I would have you stay for dinner but since I cannot stay myself, I must ask you to enjoy dinner with us another time.” Thomas reached across the desk to clasp his hand briefly, and James looked down at Thomas’ warm fingers brushing against the bones of his wrist.

Then Thomas pulled his hand away and was standing up, putting his wig back on as he did so. James said his goodbyes to both Thomas and Miranda and left the room, but Miranda came out after him, stilling him with a hand on his shoulder.

“James,” she said. “Could you spare the time for an interlude with me?”

James looked at her. An interlude? “You mean—”

“I mean in the bedroom,” she confirmed. “You should follow me if you’d like.” She turned and headed down the hallway, and James only debated to himself for a moment or two before going after her.

When he slipped into the room he had seen her enter, he looked around briefly. It was lavish as the rest of the house, but the main feature was the four-poster bed, which occupied most of the room. Miranda was retrieving something from a chest of drawers beside the bed, and James almost choked at the sight of the first item that she took out. It was… well, it was a dildo, made from dark brown leather, of average size. James had never laid hands on one before, and he had the urge to touch it to see what it felt like. He supposed Miranda would allow him the opportunity, soon enough.

Miranda took out more objects and laid them on the bed next to the dildo: a tangle of leather straps, presumably a harness for the dildo, a vial of oil, a grey blindfold, and coils of white rope. Silk, by the looks of it.

Miranda closed the drawer and stood up and regarded James. James looked from the bed back to Miranda, and felt his cheeks began to heat at the thought of what Miranda might want from him this time.

Miranda smiled, very slowly, as she picked up the dildo and ran her hands up and down it. “ _Oh, his work! What work it is!_ ” she began to say, her voice pitched a little higher—the voice that she used when she was reciting from some text. “ _You would think you were seeing the handiwork of Athena, not Cerdon. When I saw them, my eyes swelled out at first sight. Men do not make stands so straight; and not only that, but their smoothness is sleep._ ”

“Are you quoting from some literature about the craftsmanship of dildos?” he asked, incredulous.

Miranda’s eyes sparkled. “Why yes, I am, Lieutenant,” she said. She set the dildo down on the bed and began to work at ridding herself of the many layers she was wearing, and James quickly went to her side to help, his eyes frequently darting to the items on the bed.

When Miranda was naked, she lay down on the bed and spread her legs, and began to touch herself. James stood, unsure of himself. It was a wondrous sight to behold, but it was only now beginning to sink in that this was not his room.

He and Miranda might have fucked several times now in his own humble lodgings, but that was a different matter. This was the Hamiltons’ house—this was their _bed_ , where the two of them slept and… made love. Their very ornate four-poster bed, with red and gold curtains and intricate patterns carved into the oak wood, patterns that James was now tracking with his anxious eyes.

Miranda’s impatient sigh brought James’ thoughts back into focus. His gaze fell upon her again, her long brown hair falling over her shoulders, her fair body, her hand between her legs—two fingers disappearing into herself. His mouth went dry.

“Lieutenant, take off your clothes,” she said.

He obeyed, stripping efficiently, forcing himself to look at nothing but the way Miranda was fucking herself with her fingers, with short and hard strokes. He wanted to learn what pleased her. When he had undressed, he waited for her to say more; it was clear to them both by now that he quite liked to have her give him orders.

“Pick up the dildo,” she said. And he did, feeling it for the first time, the weight of it, the warm, smooth texture. It was finely made—not that he had examined another dildo that he could compare with this one. But as he ran his hands over it briefly, he could not discover any flaw in the stitching, any fault which might cause discomfort.

“Now fuck me with it,” Miranda said. “Use the oil.” James raised his eyebrows. He had not quite expected this. Well—this was not the first thing that had come to mind when Miranda had taken it out from the drawer, at any rate—especially not when the harness had also appeared.

Miranda smirked, as if she knew what was thinking. She probably did, of course. “Oh, you’ll get your reward later if you’re good,” she said.

James swallowed. Oh yes, Miranda knew.

He slicked up the dildo with the oil, and this time, knowing definitely that Miranda was going to put it inside him, he lingered as he did, feeling the girth of it, the length, and trying not to shiver with anticipation as he did.

He knelt between Miranda’s legs. Miranda took her fingers out to make way for the dildo, and as James pressed it inside her, she moaned and her thighs quivered. James wanted to kiss the insides of those thighs.

He pulled it out partway—and it was in fact quite difficult to keep a hold on it now that it was slippery with the oil and with Miranda’s own wetness. He took hold of one of the tiny straps at the end to aid him, and he pushed it back in as far as it would go.

“Come on, James, faster,” Miranda said. So James picked up the pace, though it was hard not to stop every time he pulled it out to admire how the leather glistened wetly in the dim lamplight. He fucked Miranda with it, while she rubbed herself in small, persistent circles, just above where the dildo sank into her body. She was moaning so prettily, breathing hard, her nipples stiff points, and James could not resist: he bent down to suck one of those pink nipples into his mouth.

“ _Fuck_ , yes, James, that’s marvellous.” Miranda’s hips were stabbing upwards to meet the movements of James’ wrist. He righted himself again to watch her: how beautiful she was, spread out like this. Part of him knew that she was putting on this display for him in a very deliberate manner; she could be so quiet if she needed to be. But he was enjoying it, exactly the way she meant him to. 

He put his other hand to his own cock, which was painfully hard by now, and Miranda slapped his hand away immediately—she was always keeping an eye on his every move. “James, you know better than to touch yourself until I tell you to.” Her voice was laced with disappointment.

“I’m sorry,” he said, though it came out more a frustrated groan than anything else. The way Miranda looked, her cheeks flushed, perspiration gathering at her clavicle, her hips jerking, her fingers claiming her own pleasure—it was too much for him. But he would obey her.

“Go back to kissing my breasts and I might forgive you,” Miranda said, grandly. So he did, licking at her nipple once more. Miranda was shuddering and moaning under him. He thought about sucking the skin at the side of her breast, hard enough to leave a bruise the way Thomas had, but he thought that might be going too far. Though: what would Thomas think if he took off his wife’s shift to discover that another man had left a mark on her body the way he had? It was not as if Thomas did not know about the affair, as Miranda had repeatedly assured him.

Even so, James wondered what Thomas would feel; he knew how _he_ had felt when he’d seen that mark on Miranda’s breast. Might Thomas, just possibly, feel the same?

The thought sent a hot thrill through him, and he ached all the more to touch himself.

He refrained, nonetheless, from creating such a mark, and from touching himself. He went on fucking Miranda with the dildo (“Harder,” she instructed, and he complied) and gently grazed her nipple with his teeth. Miranda came with a cry, and James’ cock twitched to hear that sound.

There was a moment while Miranda composed herself, and then she nudged his hand away from the dildo and withdrew it from herself.

“Get on your knees beside the bed,” she said.

He did so. The floor was covered in carpet—rough, but still better than a hard wooden floor, which was what he had put up with the last time he was on his knees for someone. He waited, watching while Miranda fitted on the harness and fiddled with it until the dildo was attached to her.

It was still so wet; the leather gleamed.

Miranda was standing before him now, and he knew, before she said it, what she wanted her to do, and he had to restrain himself from doing it before she told him to, so badly did he want it.

Miranda grasped a fistful of his hair. “Suck my cock clean like a good boy,” she said, smiling down at him.

He stilled, simultaneously aroused and horrified by Miranda’s choice of words. Of course, a dildo could be seen as an artificial cock, but it wasn’t necessary to treat it as such. He wondered whether Miranda knew that he had actually sucked a cock before.

Probably. It was Miranda. She saw too much of him that he hoped nobody else could see.

“Are you all right?” Miranda said, suddenly concerned.

“Yes,” he said, and to prove it, he licked at the head of the dildo, and he moaned at the taste of Miranda’s wetness on it, sweeter and more familiar than the salt sea to him by now. Underlying it was the unmistakeable scent of leather, which was odd, but nothing he couldn’t get used to.

He laved the length of it with his tongue, and then he took it into his mouth fully. It felt different in his mouth than a cock did—the texture of it, the rigidity, the heat. There were subtle differences everywhere, and he missed the real thing, but this was a different kind of good, especially with Miranda standing over him. Good enough that he moaned from the act, earning a pleased hum from Miranda.

Miranda pulled on his hair when she was satisfied with the job he’d done, and she told him to get back on the bed, on his back.

“Have you ever had anything up your arse, Lieutenant?” she said, rather conversationally, when he had done as she asked. James was always endlessly impressed at how easily explicit statements like that rolled off Miranda’s tongue, as if she was merely talking about the weather.

He hesitated before saying no, though it was the truth. As much as he had wanted men to fuck him before, an occasion had never presented itself. He’d sucked cock, had his cock sucked, tossed someone else off—even fucked a man, once. But all these encounters had been rushed and furtive and over before they’d barely begun, and nobody had ever expressed a wish to fuck him.

Miranda’s eyes widened a little, but she did not disbelieve him, or she did not say so outright, anyway. “Well, would you allow me the privilege of being the first person to put something up your arse? You know you can always say no.”

They had been through this. The third time they’d fucked, when Miranda had started experimenting with ordering him around, she’d firmly laid out rules to ensure that he would always be comfortable with what they were doing.

He did not trust himself to speak. Of course Miranda had already guessed that he had wanted it, and she _knew_ that he did want it, from the way he had reacted to that dildo when he had been presented with it. But admitting this outright, that was different.

When he still did not reply, Miranda said, softly, “There’s no shame in wanting what you want, James.”

He looked at her brown eyes, which were so warm, and he wondered how much she knew of what he truly wanted.

He nodded.

She smiled, and smoothed her hand through his hair. “Thank you,” she said. She kissed him, tenderly, and for some reason he thought he could cry.

“I’m going to blindfold you,” she said, her voice still infinitely gentle, “and tie your hands to the bed.”

She picked up the blindfold and fastened it around his head, and then he could only hear the creak of the bed as she moved around affixing the rope to the columns, he assumed. Then she was binding his wrists, separately, so that his arms were stretched horizontally on either side of his head. He felt her slipping her fingers in between the rope and his wrists to check that she had not tied them _too_ tightly.

She made him lift his hips so she could slide a pillow beneath him.

“Spread your legs.”

He did, and he felt her run her hands up the insides of his thighs, and he was already beginning to feel breathless. The fingers on her right hand were coated with oil, leaving a trail up his thigh.

Her hands squeezed the cheeks of his arse, and he felt her thumb brush against his entrance. He gasped.

“Miranda,” he said.

“James,” she responded, her voice honey-sweet as she teased his hole with fluttering strokes of her thumb.

Then she pushed a finger inside. “You know, wanting something in your arse doesn’t necessarily mean you want to be fucked by a man,” Miranda said, as she worked him open with her finger. “I’ve fucked plenty of men who only wanted women. But if you want it to be another man doing the fucking, then that’s something else entirely.”

James groaned; he knew he was blushing, could feel the warmth spreading up his neck and across his face. He was imagining Miranda taking other men apart like this, and he wondered if Thomas was one of those men. But he found that his thoughts lingered not on that but on Miranda herself, on how she might look with her long hair sticking to the sweat on her face and her shoulders, on how her hips might move when she fucked those men.

“I want _you_ to fuck me,” he said. “Who said anything about another man?”

“You don’t fool me, James,” Miranda said, and her voice sounded so fond and amused and sad all at once. She pressed another finger into him, and James moaned, spread his legs a little wider.

He _did_ want her to fuck him. He had never expected that he would, but here he was, weeks after he’d first fucked Miranda in that carriage, _wanting_ Miranda in ways he had never wanted any woman, wanting her in every way, wanting her to possess him and to prise his heart open, to expose what was inside it, all that was weak and unlawful and different and _base_. 

He wanted Thomas too, but this—this was not some sort of substitute for that.

Miranda had three fingers inside him now, curling them upwards within and rubbing insistently at a certain spot that set his body alight, and he cried out and rolled his hips and said, “Please, Miranda.”

“Please what?”

“Please fuck me,” he said.

“Well, since you begged so nicely,” she said. She took her fingers out, but it was only moments before he felt the firm press of the leather against his entrance, and he found it suddenly difficult to relax. Miranda caressed his chest and leaned over him, whispering, “Shhhh, good boy, James, let me in, it’s just me.”

And then the leather was inside him, stretching him open, and he moaned long and loud, unable to help himself. The feeling of unyielding fullness was like nothing he had ever experienced before.

Miranda’s hand was touching his cheek gently, cupping his jaw, and she thrust in and out of him, shallow at first, and careful. “James,” she said. “James, God, you’re wonderful.”

“Oh God, Miranda,” he mumbled. “Please, harder.”

She began to fuck him harder, and he thought— _shit_ , he was actually getting fucked, for the first time in his life, and it was not by a man as he had spent countless lonely nights dreaming it would be: it was a woman, it was Miranda, who looked at Thomas the way James knew he also looked at Thomas; Miranda, who had seen everything in James and accepted it all; Miranda, who was so clever and witty and uncaring of what society thought of her, of all the rumours about her that travelled from one end of London to the other and back again, becoming ever more fanciful and prurient and insulting with each trip through the city.

She was so beautiful and proud through it all, and here she was, giving James exactly what he wanted without knowing that it was, it _was_ truly all he wanted at this moment in time, for all the desires that he harboured in his heart for her husband too. He wanted her no less for those.

She was murmuring in his ear, “How would you feel if I left you tied up here as a present for Thomas?”

He trembled at the thought of Thomas seeing him like this, naked and bound; in fact, the thought of Thomas retiring to bed later and seeing these damp, rumpled bedsheets upon which James had been fucked by Miranda—the thought of it burned him, with something like shame, and something like want. It was not always easy to tell where shame ended and want began. He had been ashamed of his inclinations for so long.

But the more he thought about it, the more want triumphed over shame, and he found himself whimpering, “Please touch me.” He was so hard; his cock was leaking, and he strained at the ropes, longing to touch himself. Each of Miranda’s thrusts sent a liquid jolt of pleasure through his body, and the leather was filling him up so deeply every time Miranda pressed her hips right up against him.

“You like that idea, don’t you?” Miranda said. He could hear the smile in her voice. “Don’t worry, I wouldn’t actually do it. But you like thinking about it, about him finding you here in the state you’re in. God, you’re so good like this, James.”

She still was not touching his cock, but she stroked the insides of his thighs, tantalisingly close to his balls. He grit his teeth; he was shaking from it, from how agonisingly good it felt to be fucked like this, but he needed—he needed to be touched, he wanted to come.

“I think he’d like it too,” she whispered into his ear, “seeing you like this with your cock so hard, begging to be touched, to be fucked.”

He moaned raggedly, and she finally put her hand on his cock, and with only a few brisk pumps of her hand, he was coming with a helpless cry; he felt himself clenching around the leather as his cock pulsed and spilled across his abdomen.

He did not know anything at all for a few long moments. Then he was blinking in the soft light as Miranda slipped the blindfold off his eyes, and there was Miranda’s smile before him, lovely as the dawn at sea. 

“Miranda,” he said, his voice rough. “God, I— I love you.”

She was the one to blink now, in surprise, and then she said, “Darling James, I love you too.” She kissed him, slowly and fully, her whole body melting against the length of his, and the same sensation he always felt when his feet first found solid ground after weeks at sea stole over him now.

She untied the ropes, and then she took a small towel from the nightstand. When she had cleaned them up, she lay down next to him and kissed his hair and they held each other in silence for a while, James knowing he would have to leave soon but not quite being able to bring himself to do that yet. 

Even if he might never kiss Thomas and hold him the way he so desperately wanted to, right now, held in the circle of Miranda’s arms, Miranda’s hand running idly through his hair—James thought: how infinitely glad he was to have known her and to be touched by her in this way.

He was safe, here.

**Author's Note:**

> There is a massive anachronism in this, which is that the thing that Miranda quotes about dildos is from a poem by Herodas (Mime 6), and the papyrus containing Herodas' poems wasn't discovered until 1891, so Miranda is almost two centuries too early to quote any Herodas. But I absolutely love that little gem of a poem (about two women talking about dildos) and I had to throw it in, anachronisms be damned. I think Miranda would have loved it too, if only Herodas had been rediscovered 200 years earlier than it actually was historically. The quote is adapted from a translation by Cunningham (1971, I think?).
> 
> Comments are always appreciated, and as usual I can be found on [tumblr](http://reluming.tumblr.com/). <3


End file.
